The Consummation (part 4 of 5)

It’s been two months since The Operation. I’m walking normally. I’m talking normally. I’m pissing normally, to be perfectly blunt. In fact, everything seems to be working normally, including the most important parts, if you get my drift.

Went to the doctor with my little specimen bottle a few days ago. The call came back that everything was good – meaning there weren’t any hidden surprises floating around in my system.

Or so they said.

This was my one significant concern, now that everything was over and done with. Yes, the operation went smoothly. No residual pain or swelling. No residual discomfort. No staff infection.

No gangrene.

But what if, somehow, there were one or two little ‘soldiers’ still lurking around in there, desperately hanging on for one more shot at fame and glory?

Imagine, if you will, that you are a sperm. One small part of a very large army, an invincible army that sees a lot of action and is continuously resupplied with reinforcements. As a member of this army you feel strong and confident, sure of yourself and your mission.

Now suddenly, each mission becomes a war of attrition. Not only do you find yourself charging headlong into an impenetrable wall, but after every battle the troops are decimated, unable to reach their objective and no longer reinforced. And with each successive mission your strength gets weaker, your numbers fewer, your morale lower.

I don’t know about you…but if I were one of those last remaining sperm, I know what I would do. I’d hunker down, hang on as long as I possibly could, and once I sensed the big rubber wall was no longer in place I’d charge forward with everything in my power to strike one final blow for the reproductive system, a way to honor all those who had gone before me, and to leave my legacy to the world in the form of a cute little baby.

It’s the opposite of a suicide mission. Instead of going out by taking life, it’s going out by creating life.

And since that is what I would do, and we’re talking about my last remaining sperm, I was pretty sure a couple of those little soldiers were hanging around waiting to do just that.

So it was with a slight bit of trepidation that I approached the appointed rendezvous. My wife, god love her, had set the appropriate mood – a chilled beverage, soft music, mood lighting. Some little lacy piece of nothing clinging to her shapely form.

Chris and Tommy were with their aunt and cousins. No worries on that front.

We took our time, enjoying the mood and the moment. It truly was special. Memories of the consultation and the operation disappeared in the mist of romance. The full benefit of the procedure quickly became apparent. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be ‘natural.’

We talked afterwards. We talked about how it felt, for both of us. About not being able to add to our family, should we somehow decide we’d want to. About whether we’d been hasty in making this decision. We were both very open and honest, as we usually are. It was a good conversation.

There was one thing, though, that I didn’t tell her.

You may not believe this, but it is absolutely true. At that exact ‘moment’ I swear I heard a lone bugle playing ‘CHARGE!’

It’s great to be The (uh oh) Family Man.

Coming next: Part 5 – The Conclusion

The Cut (part 3 of 5)

NOTE: I’ve received a few e-mails about the first two parts of this story. Apparently I was not as clear as I had thought in part 1 about the timing of this part of my life. This entire episode happened over a period of four months not too long ago. Now complete, I’m sharing the story in a compressed form.

I'm going through with it.

I’m lying on the exam table, knees up, legs spread, feet in stirrups. I thought the stirrups were for women only. Now I know better.

A nasty thought flashes through my mind - I hope I’m not a woman when this is complete.

I’m wearing the paper gown. Could these things be any more flimsy? The nurse has come in and swabbed me ‘down there’ with that super hypo-allergenic disinfectant stuff. I’m not sure if I’m smelling that – or my fear.

Let me put that in perspective. While I’m not a US Marine, I’m nobody’s wimp either. A couple of years ago I was running in a local park, after dark, and a stray dog came up and bit me – took a chunk of flesh out of my butt, to be exact. I drove myself to the ER, got my shots and stitches with nary a whimper. So I can handle the pain.

But this is different. I am voluntarily letting a doctor cut me up IN A VERY SENSITIVE AREA. A razor sharp metal object, to be exact, plus some sort of flaming thing for good measure. A screw up here is a bit more damaging then a few extra stitches in my ass. So I think I’m entitled to a little apprehension going into this.

Plus, I give myself some credit for going through with this at all. According to the doctor about 20% of the men who come in for the initial consultation don’t go through with the procedure. I’m sorry, did I say men? I meant wimps.

On the other hand, their plumbing still works.

Doctor Jackson comes in, wearing scrubs, followed by two other people. A man and a woman. He says hello to me and introduces the male, a very serious Indian guy named Vishtal. He then introduces the woman as Jennifer. They are both residents, he says, and would like to observe the procedure, if that’s okay.

“Sure,” I say. I doubt I really have much say in the matter anyway.

There’s only one problem.

Jennifer is hot. I mean, really hot.

She fills out the scrubs very nicely. That’s hard to do. She’s definitely got something going on if she can make scrubs look sexy. Even in my current state, my mind starts to do what a man’s mind starts to do when a beautiful woman is standing in front of him, smiling and looking great.

I’m suddenly concerned for my equipment - which, as you might expect in my current position, is cowering. That’s probably a good thing for what’s about to happen. What I don’t want is for my mind to communicate to my body that Jennifer is standing there.

I try to focus on Doctor Jackson, or on Vishtal, on just about anything other than Jennifer. It’s not working.

Perhaps this is part of the plot. ‘We’re going to tease you, then we’re going to cut you up and you’ll never be able to think thoughts like that again. Or at least not act on them.’

Did I just think that? Maybe the drugs are kicking in. Oh, that’s right. Local anesthesia doesn’t work that way.

Before I know it the doctor has his gloves on and is getting ready to work. He picks up the scalpel and begins to speak. “We’re going to make two small incisions here, and here,” he points, talking to me as well as the residents. Due to the paper gown I can't actually see where he's pointing, exactly. But it really doesn't matter because I can’t take my eyes off the scalpel. It looks about as big as a Samurai sword. And he’s going down there with that!

Things begin to happen quickly. Before I know it the cuts have been made. The local anesthetic must be working, I don’t feel a thing. The doctor is talking to the residents as he works, describing what he’s doing in a clinical, professional manner. Jennifer is all business. I assume I’m not embarrassing myself, if you know what I mean.

In a brief flash of vanity, I also hope she’s at least mildly impressed.

So far in this procedure I’ve barely felt anything. Suddenly the doctor rises up and turns to me, holding what looks like a ten-inch stand of wet spaghetti. “The first side is done,” he says. “This is what we’ve taken out of you. Now we’re going to tie off both ends and cauterize.”

He turns back to work. I’m amazed at the length of tube he removed, and tell him so. “Oh, yes, that’s normal,” he says. “We really don’t want the two ends to grow back together. Besides, you won’t be needing it any more, now, will you?”

He’s got a point there.

Suddenly I catch a whiff of burning flesh. That’s me, I think.

Doctor Jackson notices my alarm. “We’re cauterizing now. It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“No,” I say. And it really doesn’t.

This whole thing is a big disconnect. I’m getting cut and burned in a very sensitive spot, by my own choice, and having a conversation with a doctor and two residents as if they were simply taking my blood pressure. I’m smelling my own flesh burning, and we’re talking about the weather!

The doctor rises again, holding another strand of wet spaghetti. This one looks even more like spaghetti as it has sauce on it. Red sauce. No, wait – that’s my blood.

Suddenly, it seems, it’s all but over. They are stitching me up, which doesn’t take long because the incisions were very small. The residents step back and the nurse comes back in to clean up.

Doctor Jackson tells me that I’ll be sore for about 48 hours. “I like to do these on Friday so patients have the weekend to recover. It’s best if you can stay off your feet as much as possible for the next couple of days.” He writes out a prescription for some pain meds.

“You’ll be swollen for the next 24 hours or so. It shouldn’t hurt to urinate, but if it does give me a call on Monday.”

If it hurts to urinate, I want to be calling someone before Monday!

Next he hands me a specimen bottle. “Remember, there is still sperm in your tubes. You should not have unprotected intercourse for at least a month, probably two months. You need to flush the remaining sperm out of your system. After 6-8 weeks bring a sample in and we’ll test to make sure all the sperm is removed from your body.”

The time reference throws me off a bit. It seems like the expulsion of remaining sperm is a function of ‘activity,’ if you get my drift, not time. I need to call him on this. “About how many ‘encounters’ would you say it takes to flush out the remaining sperm?”

“To be safe, about 20-25,” he says. “It varies, of course, so that‘s why you want to bring a sample in for testing.”

The nurse returns with a bag of ice. She hands it to the Doctor, who says, “You’ll want to use ice to keep the swelling down tonight and tomorrow. By Sunday afternoon you should be pretty well back to normal.”

He hands me the ice. Jennifer makes no move to help me position it. Oh well.

It’s over.

I thank the doctor, we shake hands. I turn to go out through the waiting room. I don’t know how to say this delicately, so I’ll just say it – my balls feel HUGE. Plus there’s an ice pack down there, and it’s really cold. Walking is somewhat awkward. No, actually, it’s very awkward. I pass the receptionist, knowing she knows I’ve been clipped. I’m still a little numb down there, and I wonder when the pain will hit, how bad it will be.

I catch site of myself in a mirror. I look okay, all things considered. And, hey – I’ve got one hell of a package!

My wife is waiting in the parking lot to drive me home. I ease in to the passenger seat; gently work the seat belt into place.

“How did it go?” she asks.

I’ve planned for this.

In my highest falsetto voice I say, “Just fine!”

It’s great to be The (ouch!) Family Man

Coming next: Part 4 – The Consummation

The Consultation (part 2 of 5)

I’m sitting in a physician waiting room with a dozen or so normal people. They are here for the things you’d expect from people in a physician’s waiting room – colds, fevers, aches and pains, annual physicals. They’re here for the right reasons. They belong here, and when they walk out they will be on their way to feeling better.

I’ll bet none of them are here to get neutered.

Yes, I am here to consult with a urologist about a vasectomy. I have voluntarily walked in to this office for the express purpose of discussing with another man the process, and prospect, of taking a sharp instrument and removing some of the plumbing around, how can I say this delicately, the Family Jewels.

I’ve done a little bit of research before coming in here, but not much. I mean, I’m either going to do this or I’m not. Reading all kinds of medical mumbo-jumbo online isn’t going to make me feel any better. I need to look a doctor right in the eye and get the story from the guy who is going to wield the knife.

Wield the knife. The thought makes my you-know-whats shrivel at the mere thought.

After some mindless reading from the stack of months-old periodicals in the waiting room the receptionist calls my name. I go to the desk; she smiles and says, “Dr. Jackson will see you now.”

Apparently Dr. Bobbitt isn’t in today.

A nurse leads me to an examination room, offers me a seat, closes the door and leaves.

Just a side note – why is it that whenever you have to go to see a doctor you have to wait in an exam room after you’ve already waited in a waiting room? That kind of bugs me.

The exam room is white and sterile. There is even less to read here than in the main waiting room. In fact, there is nothing to do in here but sit and wonder WHAT THE HELL AM I THINKING!!!!! At that moment the door opens and the doctor walks in.

He’s a younger doctor, tall and trim. I’m guessing late 30’s or early 40’s. Looks like he keeps in shape. Not wearing glasses – maybe contacts? His eyesight better be damn good for what I’m here to talk about. We make some small talk as I watch his hands. No sign of spasms or shaking – that’s good.

He starts to talk about the procedure in very clinical terms. I hear him say ‘local anesthesia.’

“You’ll mean I’ll be awake for this?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “This is an outpatient procedure; it’ll take less than an hour. We’ll do it in this office, just down the hall.” Somehow I thought I’d be out cold. “In fact,” he says, “I’ll give you the play-by-play of the procedure as we go along.”

He goes on to tell me how they will make two small incisions, remove portions of the tubes that carry the sperm, tie the tubes off and cauterize them to prevent the sperm from reaching their intended destination.

Cauterize?

“Yes,” he says, “we cut the tubes and tie them off at each end, and we also cauterize each end of the tube. You see, the body will try to heal itself. The tubes will attempt to grow back together and re-attach. We want to make that as unlikely as possible.”

It seems like overkill to me. He says, “I do it that way, some doctors only cut and tie. However, there have been several cases where the tubes have reconnected after several years.” He looks at me and says, “Seems to me if you’re going to do this, you don’t want to have an accident down the road. We want to be as sure was we can that you won’t have a problem.” He sites one case in particular where the man had a vasectomy, the woman her tubes tied, and they still got pregnant.

I honestly don’t know how that could be, but he said it.

To put it bluntly, that would suck

I ask about insurance. It turns out that insurance will pay for this procedure, even though it’s elective and not medically necessary. Why? “It’s cheaper for the insurance company to pay for this than to pay for a pregnancy, delivery and follow-up care for a baby,” he says.

I didn’t know that.

He talks a bit more about the procedure, tells me that ‘almost’ 100% of these procedures are free of ‘complications.’ He also tells me that about 20% of the people who have this initial consultation don’t follow through with the procedure.

Is that a challenge?

He hands me a pamphlet that explains everything he just said. He asks me if I have any questions.

“No,” I say.

He looks at me, a slight smile on his face, and says, “Do you have the balls to go through with this?”

Did he really just say that?

I pause. I’m not letting that one go by. “Yes,” I say, “just make sure they’re still there when you’re done.”

He smiles, shakes my hand. “We’ll see you two weeks from Friday. 4:00 p.m. You’ll need the weekend to recover.”

When I get home I check the calendar. That Friday won’t be the 13th.

I guess I’ll go through with it.

It’s great to be The (gulp!) Family Man

Next: Part 3 – The Cut.

The Conversation (part 1 of 5)

One evening a few months ago, my wife and I were relaxing on the couch. Chris and Tommy had both gone to bed early, which is very unusual. We found ourselves with a rare moment of ‘alone time.’

We were talking about nothing in particular when this sentence just popped out of her mouth:

“What would you think,” she asked, “about having another child?”

Oh God.

In the back of my mind I guess I knew this would come up one day. I didn’t know when. I just didn’t think it would be right now.

Of course I know exactly what I think – no way. We’re finally past the infant stage for the second time. We occasionally get a good night’s sleep. The boys are both now able to understand and follow instructions – though they often choose not to. Chris is potty-trained, Tommy well on his way. I have no desire to start all over with a baby.

A third child means we’re outnumbered. Right now we’re overmatched at even strength. Add a third player to Chris and Tommy’s team and Mom and Dad are in trouble. In hockey terms, the kids would have a power play for the next two decades.

Financially I don’t want to go there. We’re doing okay now, but a third child will tax our resources, particularly with day care. And do you know what diapers cost? Oh, and the college fund. A third child and we’re looking at begging for financial aid at East Dishrag Community College in 18 years.

Not to mention that my wife and I are both getting older and the risks of complications would be greater this time around. For her and for the child.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my boys. If you’ve read any of my previous posts you know this. But I think two children are plenty. I have no desire to tempt the fates with a third child.

These are all logical, rational points. But I know this conversation is not going to take place in that realm.

I thought for a moment, decided to play for time. “Well, I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I miss having a baby,” she said.

She clearly wants to talk about this. I have to be fully engaged and have this conversation with her. It’s very important to her and she needs me to be an active participant. Unfortunately, I have no idea what to say right now.

When in doubt, stall. “I’m sure you do,” I say.

“I love the boys, I really do,” she says. “They’re so cute and fun. But I can’t cuddle and hold them like I used to.”

Let me say, at this point in this story, that my wife is a wonderful mother. I mean it, our kids could not be luckier. She loves them so much and it shows in everything she does. She plays with them, reads to them for hours, draws and paints with them, and comes up with countless things to do with them. She has incredible patience.

And she’s wonderful with infants. She really was radiant when the boys were babies.

But my memories of ‘cuddling and holding the baby’ are a bit different. I remember many nights of walking a crying baby up and down the hall for what seemed like hours at 3:30 a.m. I remember dozing fitfully in the recliner with a baby on my chest, neither of us sleeping, each trying to outlast the other. I remember driving up and down the freeway for hours one night to keep a crying baby out of the house so my wife and older child could sleep. I remember a Labor Day weekend with a sick infant, putting him in the stroller and walking around the block for two hours in the middle of the night, the only thing that would keep him from crying.
And these are some of the less painful episodes.

It wasn’t all that long ago that Tommy threw up right into my mouth.

“I can imagine,” I say. It’s a nothing response. But I’m engaged, making eye contact, leaning toward her to show that I am an active participant in this very important conversation. Hoping all the while it goes absolutely nowhere.

She is getting wistful. “They’re growing up so fast. Tommy will be going to pre-school next year. Chris will be in kindergarten. It would be so nice to have another baby to cuddle and love.”

Truth be told, she has her share of bad memories as well. If she were in a rational, logical mood right now I could point those out. But this isn’t one of those times. I’ll have to handle this differently, and I’m thinking it’s time to try to gently nudge this ship onto a different course.

“I understand how you must feel,” I say, “…as best I can not being a woman. That mother-child bond is something special, something I’ll never really know. I’ve seen you with both our boys when they were babies and how much you enjoyed it. They couldn’t have been luckier to get a mom like you.”

She smiles. As I’ve told you, this is an honest and true statement. I believe it with all my heart.
I continue, “But it seems to me our family is perfect right now. Our boys have really bonded with each other, and we’re really starting to do family things where everyone can participate. If we add pregnancy and a baby into the mix, it’s going to be like taking a step backward.” Oops, a small tactical error there. “A short, temporary step,” I add, “…but even so, we’re doing so well right now, it’s hard to imagine changing things when our family has such harmony.”

Did I just say our family has ‘harmony?’ Where did that come from?

But this is also true. We really seem to be ‘gelling’ as a family unit. There is harmony in our home. Granted, there is also chaos, discord and anarchy from time to time. But in a good way.

We talk a while longer. I gently bring up the age and risk factors. She can understand that. We know a couple, not much older than we are, who have a child that is developmentally challenged. She’s often commented that she’s grateful we don’t have that particular issue to deal with. I don’t even bring up my financial concerns – I’m smart enough to know that argument won’t fly.

As we go along I get the sense that she’s not really wanting to have another child. She knows, in her heart, that our family as it stands today is the family we’re meant to be. And she is, for the most part, happy and content. I think she needed to have this conversation to actually close the childbearing chapter of her life and move on. And I think she feels like I have participated with her in that.

Thank God.

She slides closer to me on the couch. “Well, if we’re not going to try to have another child,” she says, “we should make sure we don’t have an accident.”

“Makes sense to me,” I say.

“But I’ve always had problems remembering to take my little pills.”

This is true. I remember a couple of ‘scares.’

I say, “Well, there’s always...”

She cuts me off. “I know. But then we can’t be…spontaneous.” She leans in closer to me. Her arm slides around my back. She nuzzles my neck.

Is she wearing perfume? I think she is. That’s unusual.

Her lips gently brush my ear. And where is her hand going?

“Maybe you could…talk to a doctor..,” she whispers.

Oh shit.

It’s great to be The (yikes!) Family Man

Next: Part 2 – The Consultation

Hoop Dreams

Now that we’re back from our vacation and life begins to return to what passes for normal at my house, I decided to shake things up and apply for a new job.

It’s not that I’m unhappy in my old job. In fact I really like it – my boss is great, the other members of the marketing team are smart and fun to work with, and the company is growing. It’s not that I want to leave.

But since our vacation I’ve been thinking that I’ve missed my calling. I’ve had a nagging suspicion for the past couple of years, but this trip really brought things into focus. I’m pretty good at what I do for a living now, but I’ve realized there one thing that I was meant to be. It’s nothing like what I do now, and it’s pretty far out there, but it is what it is.

I was born to be the Equipment Manager for an NBA team.

So I called around to see if there were any openings for my new chosen field, and as luck would have it, I found a vacant position.

Now why, you ask, would I want to do that? And more specifically, what are the skills and talents I possess that lead me to think that would be an ideal match for me?

Rather than spell it all out, I’ll replay the highlights of the job interview.

I sat down across the desk of ‘Jack Smith,’ VP of Operations for the ‘Fakers’ (I’ve been asked to keep the name of the team confidential). He’s wearing a team polo shirt and khaki slacks. Business casual. Wanting to make a good impression, I’m wearing my best suit and tie.

“Mr., ah, Family Man, is it? Yes, well, thank you for your interest in the Fakers. We’ve had quite a few people inquire about this position, and most of them are woefully unprepared for the rigors of the job. So before we go any further, let me tell you a bit about the unique requirements of this job and you can decide if this is something you wish to pursue.”

“Sounds fine, “I say.

“The Equipment Manager is responsible for making sure the players have whatever they need, whenever they need it. Quite frankly,” he confides, “we have a couple of real head cases on our team and they can, how shall I say, be somewhat…difficult.”

He’s absolutely right about that. I’ve seen this team play this year. These guys are crazy.

“You’d also be responsible for making sure the team has everything needed for an extended road trip. You have to be able to improvise when things don’t go as planned.”

He goes on to describe the details of the job – the packing, unpacking, making travel arrangements, taking care of special, oddball last minute requests from the various players on the team. He paints the position in a very negative light, testing me, to see if I’m going to flinch at the challenges.

If he only knew.

I start off by presenting my background and summary of qualifications. I go over my previous positions, my college degrees - the basic stuff. He notes that my present job is a good one and asks why I want to leave. I tell him that I don’t necessarily want to leave, but this particular opportunity is just too good to pass up.

He stops me right there. “You have to understand,” he says, “this is not a glamorous NBA job. This is behind-the-scenes grunt work.”

But I’m just getting warmed up.

I describe why I’m qualified to deal with unreasonable requests from petulant, spoiled superstars. Within the past month I’ve done the following:

Poured milk into three different cups because my ‘player’ did not like how the first two looked. Understand these three cups were EXACTLY THE SAME.

Prepared lunch for two of my ‘players’ EXACTLY as they had requested, only to have to make something completely different because “We’ve changed our minds.”

Attempted to provide a ‘uniform’ for my star center, Chris ‘Grant Your Wish’, only to have him reject every combination of shirt and shorts because he wants the ‘OTHER’ blue one. Which does not exist as he describes it.

Dealt with a tantrum over sleeping arrangements from my power forward, Tommy ‘The Gun,’ because the pillows were not placed correctly on the bed. This didn’t happen ‘on the road,’ but rather at home, where the pillows were placed EXACTLY as they have been FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS.

Had to back the ‘team bus’ out of the driveway two times just so each of my ‘players’ could take turns being the ‘first one’ off the bus. Talk about dealing with egos.

It looks like I have his attention.

“Road trips,” I say. “Let me tell you about road trips.”

I tell him that we just came back from an eight-games-in-eight days road trip on the East Coast. I describe the meticulous packing that took place, requiring exactly 10 bags for my two ‘players’ and two front office personnel. The checklist alone for the trip consumed at least a ream of paper. I describe getting to the airport with plenty of time, only to have the skycaps nearly ship our luggage to the wrong city and having to race back to correct their mistake, brandishing a fistful of dollars to make the thing happen.

I tell him I’d bet him lunch we brought more A/V equipment on our trip than the Fakers took on the road for the NBA Finals. Video camera, two still cameras, six media cards, two laptop computers, two cell phones, a portable DVD player with two headphones, eight DVDs (which were still not enough – one lesson learned), batteries, power cords, chargers, and tapes.

I describe how we changed planes in Cincinnati, going from Terminal B to Terminal C schlepping 6 carry-on bags, a two-seat stroller and two lethargic ‘superstars’ who could not understand, nor truly care, about the need to ‘hustle.’ It’s not THEIR problem if we miss a plane. Running past the food court the ‘superstars’ decide they HAVE TO HAVE McDONALDS. Never mind that we’re going to miss the plane if we stop – they are HUNGRY and they HAVE TO BE FED. NOW.

So we procure the required food and drink and resume our mad dash. They are actually calling our names over the PA system as we sprint toward the gate. Careening around the corner, one of the beverages flies out of the stroller and splashes against the ticket counter. I shout an apology as we speed by, while Chris ‘Grant Your Wish’ says calmly, “That better not have been MY drink.”

I tell Mr. Jack Smith, VP of Operations, how we packed every possible ‘uniform’ combination, anticipating every conceivable ‘game’ condition. Which turns out to be a good thing because nearly every ‘uniform’ was worn, sometimes for as little at 15 MINUTES before being deemed ‘unacceptable.’ How we did laundry after every ‘game,’ folded and placed each ‘uniform’ in their ‘locker’ for their selection the following morning. How we ensured their ‘game day’ meals would provide the nutrition, flavor and selection to ensure an optimized performance for that days’ contest, and how each meal was scrutinized, picked over and hardly eaten.

And how, ultimately, we can back from that trip with everything intact and an 8-0 record.

I go on and provide a few more examples, but at this point its ‘game over.’ I can see in his eyes he knows I’m his savior. Nobody he’s talked to can touch my experience.

“Well, Mr. Family Man, you make a strong case. I’ll meet with my boss later this afternoon and I’m sure I’ll be in touch.”

I walk out of his office with a spring in my step. It’s going to happen, a lifelong dream fulfilled. I cruise by the Hummer dealership on my way home, trying to decide between red and black. Hmm. Maybe one of each.

He calls me later that afternoon.

“Mr. Family Man, my boss and I were extremely impressed with your credentials and experience. You were clearly head and shoulders above all the other candidates,” he says.

Definitely red and black. Maybe a silver one, as a backup.

“But,” he says, “unfortunately we can’t extend a job offer to you.”

What?

“Mr. Family Man…you’re overqualified.”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Goodbye

The sun rose Friday morning at 5:52 a.m. I stood on the beach, my sister to one side and my father on the other. The tide was slowly rising and a soft breeze was blowing in from the ocean. Gentle waves broke on the sand and lapped at our feet.

It’s time to scatter my mothers’ ashes.

She was supposed to join us for this vacation, share this beach house with us, see her grandkids, and come back to the ocean she loved so much. We made our vacation plans last November and had been looking forward to getting together here for months.

She died on Memorial Day, two weeks before our trip.

She had said many times that when she died she wanted to be cremated and her ashes scattered in a peaceful, tranquil place. Looking back, I wonder if she knew it would turn out like this.

So we’re standing here ready to fulfill her request. We really don’t have this planned out very well. Other than actually scattering the ashes, we don’t have a schedule for how to hold this little ceremony. While nominally Catholic, my mother hadn’t gone to mass in years. My sister rarely goes to church, my father not at all. So we don’t have formal prayers to say.

But I feel like we should do more than throw the ashes in the ocean and go have breakfast. It’s the only ceremony, service, acknowledgement of her life and death that’s going to occur. She had insisted on not having a wake, a mass said for her, or any other ‘event’ in her honor. Yet she deserves something. My thought was each of us would say a few words, something we remembered about her that was special, that described the kind of person she was, before scattering her remains in the ocean.

All week I’ve been thinking about what I would say. I never did come up with anything.

My sister is holding the container of ashes. “Should we just start, then?” she says.

“I’d like to say a few words first,” I say.

It just came out. I hadn’t planned it, much as I had tried. Taking the liberty of cleaning up the pauses, this is what I said:

"Mom, we’d planned this trip with the idea that it would be a chance for us all to get together again. I wish you’d been able to make this trip, to see us and to see your grandkids. I know how you love the ocean. I know you were looking forward to it. And I’m sad that you’re not here.

“You have meant so much to me over the course of my life. I’ve tried to think all week of a particular instance or event that illustrates how much you’ve meant to me over the course of my life, but I couldn’t do it. There are too many things to choose just one or two.

“And I think you know that I turned out okay.

“But I wish you had been able to watch my boys grow up. Mom, they’re such great kids, and I know you would have enjoyed getting to know them, watch them grow up into fine young men, and spoil them along the way.

“And most of all, I wanted you to see me be their dad. More than anything I wanted to be able to share that with you, to have you know that I’m going to be a good dad for my boys.

“It wasn’t meant to be.

“But I know you’re watching. I know you’ll watch them grow up from wherever you are. And I promise I’ll be the kind of dad that would make you proud.

“I promise.”

At that point I couldn’t hold back my tears, so I stopped.

My sister said a few words of her own. Out of respect for her, I’ll refrain from publishing them.

My dad said nothing. It’s not that he didn’t want to – he simply couldn’t.

My sister then opened the container and gently scattered the ashes into the water at our feet. We watched as a wave came in and took them away.

We stood there and stared at the ocean for a several minutes, saying nothing. We’d said all we could.

Slowly we made our way back up the beach, up the stairs and back to the rest of our lives.

Goodbye, Mom.

I love you with all my heart.

When wrong is right

This is a long post.

There are times when you have to stand up for what is right, especially when it relates to your family. You don’t often get to choose the place or the time. And most of the time, it really isn’t a big deal in the grand scheme of things. But it’s the little things that count. And those are, ironically, the things that people remember for a long time.

The beach house we’re staying in grants us access to the local Country Club in Nags Head. They have a full-sized swimming pool at this club, diving board, the works.

In fact, it’s just like the municipal pool we swim in all summer back home.

So as we’re driving into the parking lot I ask my wife why we flew 2,000 miles just to swim in a pool that’s exactly like the one back home.

“Because,” she says frostily, “the kids like it. And I want to swim some laps.”

That answers that question, I guess.

Properly chastised, I unload the van and we troop into the pool area. Tommy sees the kiddie pool and wants to go there. My wife takes Chris to the larger pool to work on his swimming.

Chris is very close to being able to swim on his own. Last summer he could put together a few strokes in water that was not over his head. We’re thinking by the end of this summer he’ll have it down. So I guess this practice time will be good.

Tommy and I splash around in the kiddie pool. He’s having fun and it’s actually quite nice. About 10 minutes pass when Chris and my wife come by.

“Dad, guess what?” Chris says excitedly. “I went off the diving board!”

I glance at my wife for verification. She nods.

“Tell me about it,” I say to him.

He’s so excited his description is jumbled, but the gist of it is he walked up to the diving board, hopped on, and with my wife treading water beneath him, jumped in. She guided him back to the side, he’s sort of swimming but she’s supporting him.

His grin is so huge I have to shield my eyes from the sunlight bouncing off his teeth. “Want to see me do it, Dad?”

“Of course I do, Chris. Let’s go!”

So we all head over to the big pool and the diving board.

At this time in the afternoon the pool is not very busy. A full complement of lifeguards in chairs survey a pool that is mostly devoid of swimmers. A few groups of people splash about here and there, but this is not a busy day. The lifeguards are bored.

There is nobody in line for the diving board as Chris walks over. My wife gets in the water and swims out to her appointed position. Chris steps onto the board, walks out to the end. He carefully places both feet at the edge of the board, toes hanging over the edge.

He pauses, momentarily, still a bit nervous.

The lifeguard in the chair nearest the board watches. There’s really no one else for him to worry about in this part of the pool.

Tommy takes a breath and leaps. He splashes in, goes under, surfaces. He opens his eyes, spots my wife and starts paddling toward her. She reaches out and slides a hand under him, giving him just a bit of support, and side-strokes toward the side of the pool. Chris is all but doing this by himself. He’s really getting it.

The lifeguard is watching the whole thing, but doesn’t say a word.

Chris and my wife get to the side. He’s so proud and excited, and I’m thrilled for him. It’s a big achievement, and now he’ll always remember this vacation as the place where he first went off a diving board. When we get back home he’ll have something new to tell his friends.

Tommy is watching the whole thing. As Chris pulls himself up out of the pool, Tommy says, “I want to do it, too.”

I look at my wife. She shrugs, nods at me as if to say, ‘You decide.’

Tommy has spent his entire life, all two-plus years of it, trying to keep up with Chris. He watches him do things and tries his hardest to emulate him. He’s often frustrated because he simply cannot, at this point, run as fast, reach as high, and physically perform the same things Chris can. He is angry the Chris ‘gets’ to go to pre-school and he does not. He does not understand why Chris can play on a soccer team, wear a uniform, and he cannot.

So when he sees Chris do something like this, he is bound and determined to do the same thing. Remember, this is the boy who absolutely will not hear anything about being short or small. “I’m a Big Boy,” is his motto (you can read this post in the May archives - 'Little Big Man, May 15).

And I love him for his no quit attitude.

So I’m going to give him this chance to try it. I’ll go in the pool and wait for him under the diving board, and if he’s willing to jump, I’ll catch him and swim him back to the side of the pool.

I say to him, “Okay, Tommy, walk over to the diving board with Mommy, and I’ll catch you when you come in.”

He turns around and marches resolutely to the diving board, not even waiting for my wife. I jump in the pool and swim over to the entry point, and happen to notice the lifeguard staring at Tommy as he climbs on the board.

The lifeguard asks my wife, “Can he swim?”

My wife says “No.”

“Well, then,” he says, “he can’t go off the diving board.”

From the pool I say, “Look, I’ll be right here and catch him, swim him over, it’s no big deal.”

He turns to look at me and says, “The rules are you have to be able to swim to use the diving board. He,” pointing to Chris, “technically shouldn’t have done it either. But this one, I can’t let him go.”

Tommy has heard this whole exchange. I don’t think he quite understands what was said. But he senses there’s a problem. I’ll be damned if I’m just going to let this go down this way. It’s not going to be one more case of ‘Chris can, I can’t.’

I’m not going to let the system crush his spirit if I can help it.

Let me say for the record that I believe in rules. I understand the need for a set of guidelines that everyone must follow. There have to be standards.

But as the saying goes, there’s an exception to every rule. And there are those times when a clear-thinking individual should have the ability, authority and human decency to bend a rule when the consequences are nil.

I swim to the side and climb out of the pool, walk over to his stand. He stays in his tower, so I have to look up at him. He’s a teenager, maybe early twenties. Average looking, average build. He doesn’t seem to have a chip on his shoulder, or an attitude problem. He’s just a guy trying to do a job. I feel a little bad for what I’m about to do.

“I know you have rules to follow. But look around,” I say, surveying to pool, “there’s hardly anyone here, we’re not holding up anyone at waiting for the diving board, and there’s nobody in this end of the pool. What’s the harm in letting him go off the diving board?”

He looks around at the other lifeguards. “He just can’t do it. Those are the rules.”

Then he says, “I’ll get in trouble.”

And that’s the gist of it right there. The truth is he really doesn’t care what we do. But it’s his ass if the Supervisor sees us do this and he doesn’t stop it.

And what’s on the line for him? Plenty. If he loses this job, he’s going to spend the rest of the summer flipping burgers or working retail at the souvenir stand. Compared to just about any other summertime gig, lifeguarding is at the top of the totem pole.

It’s all about liability. I’m no lawyer but I’m sure the reason they have this rule is so they don’t get sued when some kid jumps off and the lifeguards don’t save him.

I know all this. And I am a reasonable guy. But Tommy’s going to jump if he wants to. One way or another. I’m not going to be a jerk, but I’m not going to let Tommy down.

I say to the lifeguard, “I hear you. You’ve told me the rule. You can’t use the diving board if you can’t swim. My son can’t swim. So if someone gives you any trouble over this, you tell them you told me the rule and I told you I understood it.”

I continue, “But right now he’s going off the board, if he wants to. I’m going to catch him and swim him to the side. And when I get out you, or your boss, can toss us all out of the pool. I’m here on vacation, I’m going home in two days, and I could care less what happens after we jump.”

“You’re not going to get in trouble over this.”

I turn away from him. We’re committed. I look back to Tommy. “Are you ready to jump, Tommy?”

He nods. Smiling.

“Hop on the board. I’ll jump in the water, and when I’m ready you jump into my arms, okay?”

He nods.

I jump into the water, swim to my spot. I glance up at the lifeguard. He’s sitting back in his chair, watching. Expressionless.

I call out to Tommy, standing on the back of the board, “Okay, are you ready?”

He walks forward. Nothing tentative about him. We walks right up to the edge, pauses, carefully curls his toes over the edge with one foot, then the other. He looks up at me, smiles a huge smile.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I say to him.

He swings his arms back and flings himself out into space. Arms outstretched, he flies forward, almost overshooting me. I reach up, catch him, sink back into the water, struggling to keep his head from going under. I regain control and begin to swim over to the side.

Tommy is shouting, “I did it! I did it!” He’s thrilled. We pull up to the edge and he starts to tell my wife and Chris all about his big jump.

I look over to the lifeguard. He’s looking away. I look around the rest of the pool. The other lifeguards are all just sitting around. Nothing seems to be happening.

Chris wants to go again, and of course Tommy does too. So they do. Nothing happens. Our lifeguard is staring out into the center of the pool.

After about five jumps each, the boys are tired, we call it a day. Packing up our stuff to leave, I look back on last time at the lifeguard. He’s not paying any attention to us.

What I did was wrong. I bent the rules to suit my needs. Some would call me a hypocrite. I’m no better than anyone else; I should live by the same rules as everyone else.

On the other hand, the pool is virtually empty, nobody got hurt, no damage done.

No harm, no foul.

I would do the same thing again. Tomorrow, if necessary.

But tomorrow, in fact in about seven hours from now, we’re going to scatter my mother’s ashes on the beach at sunrise.

I still have no idea what I am going to say.

But I know what she would have said about this little episode.

“You’re goddamn right Tommy’s going off that diving board!”

He did, mom. He did.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Beach Dreams

After recovering from our disastrous dining experience, we moved the next morning from our Virginia Beach hotel to our Nags Head, NC beach house. The drive was pleasant, the weather nice. The house is wonderful, right on the beach. From the deck you can watch the waves roll in and break on the sand. This evening we saw dolphins cresting just outside the breakers.

My kids are in heaven. My wife is happy, too.

One small disappointment – my sister and her family are delayed, and now won’t arrive until Wednesday afternoon. Our ‘sunrise ceremony’ will be a bit delayed.

I’m not sure I’m ready.

Anyway, we took a stroll on the beach after dinner, washed up, read books to the boys and got them to bed. My wife and I did the rest of the unpacking and we went to bed as well. It wasn’t such a great nights’ sleep last night, after all.

I was sure tonight would be better. I went to bed with every expectation that it would be.

I woke up a conscript in the Roman Army.

A blood red sun rose over a placid body of water. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked around at the uncountable centurions surrounding me. They were strong, resolute, firm of hand, secure in the conviction of their ultimate triumph. I was awed to be in their company.

Suddenly a runner appeared, looked around, saw me and stepped forward. “Sir,” he said, “the Generals require your presence immediately!” Saluting smartly, he motioned for me to follow.

Sir? Generals?

He led me through camp to a low rise where I saw two figures silhouetted against the sky, conferring, gazing over the field and out to the sea. Spread out before them were an array of battlements never before witnessed by these two eyes. As we approached the runner fell to his knees, averted his eyes, and said, ‘Your Generalships, the one you have requested is here.”

They turned, and I saw at once why the runner knelt. Resplendent in their glory and boyhood stood the two child-Kings of the modern world – Christophe’ the Strong and Tomas’ the Fierce.

Christophe’ the Strong, he of the fair hair and green eyes, tall and proud. His speed, quickness and agility belie his youthful countenance. His sharp mind and powerful command of language make him a natural leader. He asks nothing of his men that he cannot do himself, has not done countless times before. With Christophe’ leading a charge, victory is all but assured.

Tomas’ the Fierce, he of the fairer hair and dark brown eyes. If possible, more youthful that Christophe’. How many have looked upon him, smaller of stature, and mistaken his innocent brown eyes for those of a weakling, only to suffer a swift and terrible fate? Men in camp still tell the story of the unlucky Captain of the Guard who, thinking he was out of earshot, referred to him as ‘Tomas the Diminutive.’

Tomas’ cut him down like winter wheat.

They wasted no time. “Dadalos the Wise, we seek your council before the battle is engaged.”

Dadelos the Wise?

I approached, deferentially. “How may I be of assistance, your Majesties?”

Christophe’ said, “The enemy will come in from the sea. We’d like you, with your years of experience, to review our battlements and troop placements.”

Tomas added, “We are counting on you, Dad – I mean, Dadalos. Do not let us down.” His brown eyes burned with intensity. “This is a battle we must win.”

I gazed out over the field. They had done well. A series of interlocking walls and moats would funnel the attackers into a central corridor, where dozens of Seashell Centurions waited behind white ceramic armor. The main berms were reinforced with material taken from the sea itself – huge, fat walls with armor plating.

It was as if I had built it myself. With one small exception.

It would have been easier to defend if it had been built on the next rise, the one behind us. The one about ten yards further to the West.

“Who is this enemy of which you speak, young Generals?” I asked.

Christophe’ and Tomas’ glanced at each other, uncertain.

“We know not,” admitted Tomas.

Christophe’ said, with an edge to his voice, “It matters not. Now, quickly, Dadalos, your thoughts. They will arrive with the tide.”

I told them they had done a masterful job. I gently suggested some minor modifications – a few extra Centurions here, adding a bit to that wall there, deepening one of the moats. But these were truly minor changes, I told them. The final outcome would not rest on these changes. They had done a job worthy of their men, their nation, and their legacy.

The outcome of the battle, I told them, was already determined.

With energy and vigor they leapt onto the field, rallying their troops, creating the intensity they would need to wage the war at hand.

Finally everything was in place. The young Generals returned to the rise from which they would direct the battle. They bade me to join them. And so I did.

We gazed out over the placid sea, waiting for the enemy to appear. We expected them to come over the horizon like a tsunami, a screaming horde, a heathen tide to be turned back by the mighty Seashell Centurions.

It wasn’t to be. In fact, it was a stealth attack. First a feint from the right, testing the outermost wall, easily repelled. Another probe, center, also repelled. Then nothing.

Christophe’ and Tomas’ were jubilant. “See, Dadalos, we shall prevail!”

Then a stronger push, again from the right, followed immediately by another. The outermost wall began to crumble. Tomas’ leapt into the fray, rallying the troops, going so far as to wade in with his own shovel to beat back the invader. The grim determination on his face gave testimony to his name, Tomas’ the Fierce.

Oh, the minstrels will sing for thousands of years of the events of this day; how the two young Generals fought so valiantly, so bravely, so futilely, in their efforts to defeat the one enemy that could not be defeated; how they stood at the end, back to back, wielding their shovels until they could wield them no more, finally collapsing in frustration and tears as their empire slowly crumbled under the ultimate irresistible force.

I seek no glory for myself with this next statement, I present it only for the scribes so that future generations may learn of the life and times of the two young Generals. Just before all was lost I scooped them up, took them over my shoulders and carried them away to safety.

From the top of a far rise we sat, surveying the remains of the battlements that were no more. Silent, we watched for some time, the only sound that of the pounding surf.

Christophe the Strong finally broke the silence. Quietly, sadly, he said, “Dad – I mean, Dadalos – how did we go wrong?”

I paused, looked into their faces, their innocent young eyes. They should not have such weighty matters upon their shoulder at such an age. Yet I knew also this defeat would make them stronger, more formidable for the challenges that lie yet ahead. And so I chose my words carefully. “Young Christophe’, young Tomas’,” I said, “no mistake was made. You prepared for an enemy you could not have understood. You see, your enemy did not come in from the sea.” I paused, looked to the east.

“Your enemy was the sea.”

Christophe’ the Strong and Tomas’ the Fierce looked at each other.

They looked at me.

Tommy said, “Okay. Can we go have lunch now?”

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Haunt Cuisine

When you dine out with young kids you know you’re in for an adventure. If you go out in your own city, presumably you plan ahead – choosing a restaurant you are comfortable with. One you know will provide good food, good service, a place where your kids will be comfortable.

When traveling it’s a different proposition. At best you’re making a selection based on a recommendation from someone you trust, preferably a local or someone who should know – a business associate, a concierge, or at least a respectable looking bellman or desk clerk.

At worst, you pull into the first place you see because your kids are grumpy, cranky and they have to have something to eat RIGHT NOW.

Of course that’s what happened to us. After flying most of the day, a hectic plane change in Cincinnati and getting just a little bit lost driving to the beach, we checked into our hotel, threw our stuff in the room and walked out the door looking for food.

To put the rest of this story in perspective you should have a bit of gastronomical background of The Family. My wife and I are not ‘foodies.’ We don’t eat out all that often. When we do it is usually with our kids (yes, I know - we should get out more, just the two of us. That’s another post). What that means is that we usually end up at a ‘casual dining’ chain restaurant. You know those menus.

If it says gourmet burger, I feel like I’ve had a gourmet meal.

My wife is a bit more sophisticated, but my point here is that we’re not food snobs, looking for every opportunity to complain about our meal. If we get what we order, it’s cooked halfway decently and we don’t get sick, we’re satisfied.

One other thing. I have no idea how this happened, but somewhere along the way Chris picked up a taste for seafood. Particularly crab.

So as we’re walking along Atlantic Avenue, Chris spots a restaurant with a crab in the logo and he announces, “I want to eat there!”

As soon as we walked in I knew we were headed for trouble. The décor was faux fishing vessel. That tacky memorabilia hung predictably from every wall. Fake lobster pots hung in fishing nets from the ceiling.

And honest to God, there’s a guy behind the bar with a white beard and some kind of outfit that’s supposed to be fishing garb. At first I thought he was a painted wooden carving, part of the décor. Then he moved. And when he saw me staring at him, he glared at me with eyes that had seen and survived years of terrible Nor’easters. He was The Captain. And we'd be eating his catch.

The only authentic ‘fishing boat’ aspect of the décor was the smell.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

If it were just the two of us we would have turned around and walked out. But if you’ve traveled all day with kids, and they’re hungry, walking out of a place with food is simply not an option, unless you’re the type who considers a mutually destructive exchange of nuclear weapons a viable solution.

So we go in and sit down.

I should mention that I know we’re not the type of patron most servers want to have seated in their section. Frazzled parents with two little boys are not the most desirable customers. Knowing this, I go out of my way to be polite and courteous to the server. It’s the right thing to do, of course, but I also want to re-set their expectation. I’m not going to be difficult, and if I have a special or unusual request I will be gracious and understanding.

I’m just a parent – not a jerk.

Our server is an older woman, very nice, but it looks like she’s served too many hard years with The Captain. This is a job and she needs a paycheck. Still, she smiles and is very personable. She’s not just mailing this in. I smile and banter just a bit.

We order a kids burger platter for Tommy. Safe choice and he’s happy. Then we make the fatal mistake.

The seafood buffet.

It’s our own fault. We should have looked first. Because if we had, we would have left the place and let the nukes be exchanged.

Because honestly the buffet looked like it had been nuked. Three days ago.

But we’re committed now, they have our money and the kids had eaten all the breadsticks our server could bring. Chris has got to have crab. So we go through and choose as carefully as we can. A bit of this, looks okay, maybe just this little piece of that, absolutely none of whatever THAT was…until we reach the end.

It’s didn’t taste all that bad, honestly, but it was very disappointing. To me and my wife, at any rate. Our first meal on our vacation and it did not set the best tone for the rest of the trip.

On the other hand, I left plenty of room for desert. Which was chocolate, and that’s all I needed to know.

So we’re wrapping up this disappointing meal, our server brings the bill and asks how it was. Tommy jumps right in and says, “It was great!” Our server smiles at him and I second his statement. She didn’t lay out the buffet. She was very nice to us.

I paid the bill, gave her 20% and we walked out the door.

Two things.

One - As we left, Chris, who is becoming a very polite boy, says, “Mom, Dad, thanks for taking us to that fancy restaurant. That’s fun!”

Chris, we do need to get out more.

Two – Sometime after three o’clock in the morning, The Captain had his revenge. His catch is on its way back out to sea.

It can only get better from here on out.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Anticipation

Chris and Tommy finally went to sleep tonight. For a while there I didn’t they were going to go at all. They’re so excited they can hardly stand it. All day long they’ve been talking about what we’re going to do. You’d think it was Christmas Eve the way these guys are carrying on.

In the morning we leave for a week at the beach in Nags Head, North Carolina.

We’re renting a beach house with my sister and her family. She and her husband have kids about the same age as our two boys. Two years ago we made this same trip, rented this same house, and had a wonderful time. Chris remembers it pretty well and he’s excited to see his cousins again. Tommy says he remembers, but I think he’s picking up on what Chris is telling him.

We’ve shown the boys pictures of our last trip and they’re asking all kinds of questions. How long will it take to get there? Do we get to ride on the plane again? Will all that sand still be there? With each answer they get more and excited.

Tommy did pause for a moment to ask a serious question. “Will there be ghosts there, Dad?”

Lately he has a thing about ghosts. I’ve finally convinced him there are no ghosts in our house, so he sleeps pretty well in his own bed. But the beach house does not have the same Certified Ghost-Free status.

I assured him there would not be ghosts at the beach.

I’m looking forward to the trip for a couple of reasons. This year both boys will really be able to play and have fun. Last time Tommy had just turned one year old. He wasn’t walking very well then, he kept rubbing sand in his eyes, and he couldn’t stay out in the sun very long. This year he’ll really be able to play in the sand, splash in the low tide and do more with Chris. They’re going to have a blast.

It will be good to see my sister again. It was just two weeks ago we were together at my mother’s bedside when she passed away.

My mother joined us two years ago when we rented this house. It was the last time she saw her grandkids.

She was going to be with us again this year. She loved the ocean and was so looking forward to hearing the sound of the waves breaking on the beach, feeling the soft ocean breeze on her face, and watching her grandchildren play.

I would tell you it’s going to be strange to be there without her. But she will be there, sort of.

Long before she died she had asked that when her time came she wanted to be cremated, and her ashes scattered in a tranquil, peaceful place, with her loved ones present.

Life is strange, isn’t it?

One day next week we’re going to get up early, go down to the beach at sunrise, and scatter her ashes in the soft ocean breeze, where the waves break on the shoreline.

No, Tommy, there are no ghosts at the beach.

But there are spirits.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Taking Care of Business

Chris and Tommy took the night off tonight. Ate their dinner without a fuss, played nicely, went to bed early. Very unusual. So I’ll take this opportunity to attend to some other business.

No less than three different blogs have mentioned this journal by name – not just adding a link, but talking about this blog in their text. I’m not sure exactly what I’ve done to deserve it, but I’m grateful.

So I’d like to take a moment to thank them.

Thank you, ultrabright, for encouraging your readers to visit this blog. They have. Ultrabright is written by an honest, candid woman who also posts interesting photos. Plus she’s going to have a baby. Good luck and thank you for the plug.

Thanks also to just a mom for USING CAPS to tell people they HAVE to CHECK OUT my journal. Wow. They have. Anyone who writes a blog gets to choose their own name, so please don’t take this as disrespect, but you’re more than Just a Mom. You’re a wild, witty mom with a roller-coaster of a blog. Thank you for the mention.

Thank you, Raven of Nothing in Particular. Yes, you are mysterious, loyal, honest, engaging, complex, compassionate, insecure, enigmatic, funny, and more. Very deep stuff. Thank you for the plug.

Thanks to all the readers who have found this blog from one of the above-mentioned writers and left comments. I hope you’ll find this journal entertaining and worth your time.

And a very special thanks to The Waiter. I can’t believe there’s anyone online who has not read this blog. Every single one of his posts has about 50 comments. To be added to his list of links is a true honor. If by some chance you have not read this blog, you’re missing out. Thank you, Waiter.

Now then. Since there have been some new readers checking in the next few posts will provide a bit more information about Chris and Tommy, the source of much of my content and my true pride and joy. They are great kids. And, fortunately for me, they do some pretty wacky things that are fun to write about.

I’ve also got a five-part post planned that should be entertaining and amusing. It’s starting to come together but needs some work. Look for that toward the end of the month.

(That’s called a tease. I’m a marketing manager during the day. Just trying to keep you coming back for more).

Thanks again for stopping by.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Vincent van know-nothing

It was a dreary, rainy afternoon in our part of the world last weekend. Didn’t feel like June at all. My wife was enjoying a (well deserved) afternoon at the day spa. I’m home with Chris and Tommy, and we’re all bouncing off the walls.

I’m the first to admit I’m not good with the kids when we’re stuck indoors. Let me play outside and I’ll go all day – we’ll go to a park, ride scooters, throw balls around – anything outdoors and I’m ready to go. But when we’re stuck indoors I just don’t have the skills my wife does to invent things to keep the boys entertained. I usually resort to pillow fights or other rough-and-tumble activities which, more often than not, result in someone getting bonked on the head.

But that afternoon divine inspiration struck. I said to the boys, “Let’s color some pictures!”

They both thought that was a great idea, so we got out the crayons and paper and sat down to draw.

My thought was I would give a little art lesson. That would provide some structure to the activity and I thought they might like learning how to draw some of their favorite things – a fire truck, a monster truck, the Camping Machine.

Who am I to teach an art lesson, you ask? Well, while I’m no Rembrandt, my undergraduate degree is a BFA and I did attend Pratt Institute in NYC for a year. I can draw a fire truck that most people would at least recognize as a wheeled vehicle of some sort. And anyway, I’m talking about teaching two boys, age 4 and 2.

In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is King.

So we sat down to draw, and I said, “Daddy will show you how to draw a fire truck.”

“Great, Dad,” was the reply.

I gave a simple play-by-play as I drew a rectangle, with little circles for wheels, a square for the cab and a squiggly hose. Chris and Tommy diligently worked away on their versions.

Chris finished first and said, “Take a look at this fire truck!”

It was a random scribble.

Tommy said, “Mine too!”

His was also a random scribble.

Last time I saw a fire truck, the basic shape of the thing was primarily rectangular, with wheels that were, as near as I could tell, round.

Maybe they just aren’t getting it.

“Let’s try again,’ I said.

So I drew another one, more slowly, more carefully. Actually it was excruciatingly slow and painstaking. And I was very precise in my explanation of how, exactly, Chris and Tommy could do the same thing.

This time Tommy finished first. “Dad,” he said, “I think I got it!” He showed me his page – a wild, crazy mass of scribbles.

Chris had gone extreme. Far more scribbles. This time he used multiple colors.

“Dad,’ he said, ‘you’re truck is kind of boring. Look at mine. See how fast it’s going?”

“Look at mine, Dad,” Tommy said, “It’s spraying water on the fire!”

So I took a good look at their drawings. I took another look at mine.

And the light bulb over my head finally turned on.

Chris and Tommy did, in fact, draw fire trucks. They drew them the way they see them, a flurry of activity, full of excitement, adventure and motion. They captured the essence of the experience that seeing a fire truck race down the street means to them.

I drew a box with two circles.

We did accomplish the one thing I set out to do that afternoon. An Art Lesson was definitely given.

Instead of being the teacher, I was the student.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Car 54, where aren't you?

There was quite a commotion at my house this evening.

Everything appeared normal as I pulled in the driveway. A few toys in the front yard, a scooter on the sidewalk, some colorful chalk drawings on the front porch. There was a white wiffle ball in one of the shrubs.

When I opened the front door and stepped inside it was a completely different scene.

The living room was full of emergency responders. Firefighters, police officers, EMTs, army soldiers – they were everywhere, dealing with every sort of emergency possible. No less than eight fire trucks were putting out a massive blaze on the love seat. Over a dozen plastic red firefighter figurines were working desperately to put out the fire. Five police vehicles had surrounded the ottoman, where a bad guy was holding several people hostage. I heard a loud chopping sound and just managed to duck as two helicopters whizzed past my head, off to rescue stranded hikers at the top of the lampshade.

Moving to the hall I saw a horrible disaster. Two planes had crashed on the long runway, which was now teeming with yet more fire trucks and police vehicles. Oddly enough, one plane must have been transporting farm animals, and there were cows, horses and chickens scattered amongst the flaming ruins. Apparently the National Guard had been called out, as Men in Uniform were patrolling the scene.

Could it get worse?

Moving to the kitchen, I learned the answer was, sadly, yes. A tremendous tornado had swept across the rail yard, scattering engines, coal cars, oil cars, flatbed cars and track pieces everywhere. Poor Thomas the Tank engine lay on his side, a sad look on his normally cheerful, chubby face.

Just at that moment Chris and Tommy raced into the room. ”Dad, Dad!” they shouted. “Come quick! A boat sunk in the ocean and the people need help!”

We ran to the bathroom where, sure enough, a capsized boat was bobbing in the bathtub. A plastic doll floated face down in the water. Chris moved the Coast Guard boat closer to the scene. “Hello, hello, rescue boat here to help,” he said in his best loudspeaker voice.

As he carried out the rescue, Tommy looked up at me, an earnest expression on his face. “Dad,” he said, “we’ve had a busy day!”

That’s an understatement.

So if you’re reading this, happen to live in my town and wondered why you didn’t see any police cars on patrol, fire engines at the station, or other rescue heroes going about their normal daily routines…I hope I’ve answered your question.

They were all at my house.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Talk REALLY Dirty to...someone

First it should be no surprise to anyone that this is a family-oriented blog. After all it is called THE FAMILY MAN.

Having said that, I did write a post a couple of weeks ago titled ‘Talk Dirty To Me.’ Anyone who read it knows it was about the fun Chris and Tommy have saying ‘Poopy’ to each other and in public.

The idea was to use the title of the post to pique the interest of potential readers surfing the vast sea of blogs, and hope they would stop on mine.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I checked my statistics and found the following:

Referers: Who's Linking To Me?
count
-
referer

(no referer)
1

http://search.yahoo.com/search?p=talk+dirty+to+your+man&prssweb=Search&ei=UTF-8&fr=sfp&fl=0&x=wrt

Note the final line. Someone typed a Yahoo Search looking for ‘talk+dirty+to+your+man’ and guess where they ended up – that’s right – The Family Man blog.

No doubt they were disappointed when they read the post.

However, it did generate some traffic.

Which has gotten me thinking. The Family Man is a relatively new blog, only about two months old, and I’m still tying to build traffic and find my ‘voice’ in the blogosphere. So in the future you can look for posts with titles like these:

Fun in the bathtub!

Take off those jammies right now!

Is that a banana in your pocket, Chris?

Uh-oh…looks like someone needs a spanking!

If you have ideas for a fun post title please let me know.

It’s great to be The (naughty!) Family Man!

Welcome Home

As I mentioned in my last post, my mother died on Memorial Day. I have done my weeping, and I’m sure I’ll do more. But I’m not particularly a fan of weepy blogs so I’ll save my weeping for off-line time. Plus, with Chris and Tommy at the ages they are now they don’t need to see Dad crying, and anyway their blissful ignorance of the whole thing helps me keep things in perspective.

For example. Whenever I travel for business, I always bring my boys a present from my travels. It’s usually something I pick up in an airport gift shop. Well, I left rather suddenly last Sunday to try to get to my mother’s bedside (I live in the western US and my mom lived in New England) and on my way out the door Chris asked, “Dad, are you going to bring us back a present?”

Never mind that my mind was in shambles.

“Of course,” I answered with a smile. “I always do, don’t I?”

I explained to the boys as I was leaving that Nana was very, very sick and I needed to go and visit her. At some level they understood, but at ages four and two they are focused, appropriately, on what is in this for them.

Upon my return, they were waiting for me when I pulled up into the driveway. As they ran up to greet me they shouted, “What did you bring us?”

Never mind that my wife had told them my mom, their Nana, had died.

‘What did you bring us’ affirms that focus must be on today, the here and now, those who are living. It reinforces the idea that we must embrace life now, today, this very moment. We must love and cherish the time we have at that moment with those we love, and save the sadness and weeping for those times when we are alone.

Anyway, the boys really enjoyed the toy helicopters I brought home for them. Later that night, after we read books and were getting ready for bed, Tommy held up his new helicopter and said, “Dad, this is my favorite toy ever!”

Two days from now he’ll forget where it is.

I’m glad that today he is happy, that at this moment he feels like he has the best toy in the world. Tomorrow, the next day, the next month can take care of themselves. At this moment he is happy. I am happy for him. For now my sadness is gone.

It’s great to be The Family Man.

Trailer Trash II

In a previous post (Trailer Trash) I mentioned that we bought a ‘Camping Machine,’ a 27-foot travel trailer, a couple of weeks ago. We planned a shakedown cruise over Memorial Day weekend.

As it would turn out, I went from vacation mode to crisis mode in about 15 minutes. But we were still able to go camping, and right up until the end we had a great time.

The first adventure was pulling the CM out from the RV pad on the side of the house. I nearly took out the side of the vehicle as well as half of the fence. You could not slide a human hair in between the two as I pulled forward. Yet somehow neither had so much as a scratch when I finally cleared the driveway.

Chris and Tommy actually cheered.

On the road I was concerned the trailer would pull like a beached whale. In fact, it towed rather smoothly. And we went up a significant mountain pass. No land speed records were set, but we weren’t passed by anyone walking up the road either.

Upon arrival at the camp site we backed in smoothly. The CM set up very nicely, the power and water went in with no trouble. Once we were situated I took the boys over to the stream next to the campsite and we had great fun ‘fishing’ with some sticks we had found nearby, throwing rocks in the water and making roads in the gravel for the trucks the boys brought. When it was time to clean up for dinner, we washed our hands with hot water from the kitchen sink in the CM. That’s when I knew we’d actually go camping a second time.

“I’m liking this kind of camping,” my wife said.

The camping purists reading this are apoplectic. I can hear you now – “That’s not camping!” you say. “You’re not sleeping in a lumpy sleeping bag, tossing about uncomfortably in your tent, wet and cold from the rain. You’re not shivering next to a dying fire. You’re not squatting in the forest over hole in the ground. How can you be camping?”

I’ll tell you. We slept eight feet from a babbling stream that lulled us to sleep. We cooked hot dogs and smores over a campfire. We watched deer cross a meadow 500 yards from our campsite.

We also had hot water on demand, soft mattresses to sleep on and electricity.

But we did rough it a little bit. I refused, out of principle, to use the electric blanket.

Chris and Tommy had a great time in their bunk beds. They played, giggled and kept telling each other there were bears outside the window. They took forever to fall asleep, they were having so much fun. “We like camping, Dad,” they said.

We slept in a bit the next morning, had breakfast, played around the camp site for awhile. When it was time to go I hooked the CM back up to the truck and pulled out. Dumping the tanks was actually less disgusting than I had anticipated.

The shit, so to speak, would hit the fan in about an hour.

Going back down the mountain pass was a bit more tricky than going up. The CM is heavy and wanted to push us down the mountain. Big trucks were barreling past us and we rocked in their wake. Near the bottom I could smell overheated brakes. I don’t think they were ours.

Backing the CM into the RV pad was actually easier than pulling out.

We were nearly done unloading our gear when my cell phone rang. It was my sister, calling from North Carolina. She was trying to hold back tears.

“You have to get to New Hampshire as soon as possible,” she said. “Mom’s had a seizure and they can’t stop it. The doctors are trying everything they can. I can’t get there until 11:00 tonight!”

She paused, choked back a sob.

“They say she is dying. She may not make it through the night.”

At that time of day you simply cannot get to the East Coast from where I am at any decent time. I spent nearly an hour on the phone with various airlines. The best I could do was a red-eye with one connection and a 90 minute drive.

I arrived at the hospital at 11:00 a.m. the next morning.

My mother died at 1:30 p.m. that afternoon.

I’m pretty sure she knew I made the trip.

I cried many times over the next three days as I cleaned out her apartment.

A part of The Family Man is missing.

Sadness

I haven't posted recently. My mother passed away on Memorial day. It's going to be a few more days before I'll be able to continue the story of The Family Man.

Unlike my last post, this one is not a setup for a punchline...though I very much wish it were.

I should be able to resume posting sometime next week.

Thank you,
The Family Man